


Footprints In Sand

by the_milliners_rook



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Desert Punk, F/M, and poetic smut, it doesn't always work but at least it's pretty, sometimes i try to write angsty stuff too, think: trigun-esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_milliners_rook/pseuds/the_milliners_rook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. They just pack up and leave, eating a greasy breakfast, bacon and eggs and some terribly made coffee. The one with the least worst hangover gets to drive.</p><p>Too bad every road they take leads to a dead end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footprints In Sand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Babydoll_Ria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babydoll_Ria/gifts).



1.

Her perfume gives her away. She stinks of sweat and dust from the wastelands and Toushirou remembers the scent from the hollow of her shoulders mottled red from his teeth, bitten and pretty and spread out beneath him.

The sun burns between them as he passes her by in the bar, separated by shade and the hellish heat of summer, sweat sticking to his back.

He spares her a glance, and then leans on the counter, muttering his order. Waits to see if Karin looks up. His boots knock against the linoleum floor, buckles clinking like an afterthought.

She doesn't. Instead her pen hovers over the incomplete Sudoku puzzle, indignant black smudges staining the paper and the pads of her finger. Karin stares, waiting for the answers to come, gambling on some sort of luck that manifests only for the patient. Her drink is drained, the ice melted.

Behind him, the barista murmurs that his drink is ready, and with a noncommittal sound, he digs his hands into his pockets, finding change. His fingers curl around the cool glass, sunlight catching.

Toushirou sits opposite her nonetheless, sipping bourbon as the chair scrapes the floor.

2.

When Karin turns thirteen, she asks him to run away with her.

"We can do it." She says, grabbing his arm, ready to run with him at a moment's notice, if only he said yes. Rain drenches their clothes; it clings to his hair, slides down her face, soaking them to the bone and hiding their conversation in the dead of the night. Karin tugs him closer, murmuring in his ear. "Come with me."

His throat tightens, and he pauses, considering. "Where would we go?"

"Anywhere." She shrugs, loosening her hold, but not letting go. "Everywhere."

She just wants to escape this city of endless rain. He knows this all too well. Sooner or later, everyone gets tired of the rain.

They're no different.

Karin's lived with it all her life; her lungs are filled to the brim with rainwater that she might as well be drowning.

Toushirou hasn't; his lungs are parched and dusty, clogged by sand that corrodes the cracks of his ribs whenever he inhales.

Lightning strikes above them, rumbling thunder soon to follow. Beneath the flash, Karin's blush looks blue. He can trace it with a sweep of his eyes, watch it spread further as she stares at him, wild-eyed and wet, and it cuts over sharp angles of her cheeks in a losing race to raindrops.

"Why not?" It's said so quietly that he wouldn't have caught it if he wasn't so attuned to the sound of her voice. Toushirou's known her for so long it might as well be a curse that binds him to her.

He's taken too long to answer, watching her as she tries again.

"I'm sick of this place." She states simply. Her eyes become brighter as her stubbornness grows in a heartbeat, seeking the answer, her voice becoming stronger as she tries to gauge a reaction out of him. "Aren't you?"

"Karin." He starts, not knowing what to say, his mind complete blank save for the sound of rainfall. The words come out of their own accord, tripping from his traitorous tongue. "We can't _._ "

 _Not yet,_ he means to say, lungs empty for air, and he can't continue as she blinks at him owlishly, surprised, about to speak. _We can't leave yet._

But the words fade on his lips as Karin steps back; ice cold hands falling to her side, and the rain continues to pour.

3.

(Part of her has never forgiven him since, Toushirou thinks, knows, _feels_ , as her hands splay on his shoulder blades, nails digging deep enough to draw blood. Karin marks him with this, bruises him with her body the way she knows how, and sinks into his skin. Her hips push him onto the mattress, breath hitching, and Toushirou threads his hands through her hair, presses his thumb against her translucent cheekbone, tilting her head down.

He kisses her until her mouth is dark red and shiny. Until Toushirou is breathless and craves more, _needs_ more. He wants it all. Her anger, her hatred, her lust. There is nothing else but noise, those wanton sounds that he likes best, an aphrodisiac that settles in his bones and all that's left is to let go. When he comes, it's like a punch to the gut, and he's left as an aching trembling mess beside her.

He can't stop staring at her in the afterglow, can't stop touching the freckles on her skin, constellations slick with sweat. He's traced Cassiopeia and Ursa Minor with a feather light touch when Karin is raw and sensitive and the moans that scrape past her throat are breathy whimpers that make him hard. He's sucked nebulas on her breasts, glistened with sweat and spit, and Karin's fingers twist in his hair, chest heaving, her heartbeat pounding like a terribly kept secret that neither of them dare notice. He bites Auriga into her shoulder blade when she turns away, just to spend days watching the constellation fade away and lose itself in the tangles of her hair, starlight paved by teeth.

This is damnation.

From the first vicious kiss to the day they fuck, and after that, when it gets better, and all it takes is a few rough touches and one sharp thrust, Karin damns him with the weight of her gaze.

Toushirou rakes her dark, dark hair around his fingertips, pulling Karin closer as he begins to fall asleep, and lets himself be damned.

When they leave, jaded and bitter and heartbroken at seventeen, neither of them looks back.)

4.

The first year, they go half-crazy.

The road they travel is infinite, undefined by maps and concrete paths. It's anywhere and everywhere across the expanse of the desert. They visit a town called July; learn that across the ocean, rain doesn't really happen. Clouds are scarce, the bright blue sky above them unravelling before them in some sort of paradise. The familiar sight made him smile. This is what he remembers when he dreams. Heat sets in, and it seeps underneath their skin like an itch they can't scratch, discarding their clothes in order to breathe.

Karin glanced quizzically at everything, everywhere, half-curious, half-uneasy, not used to the warmer climate yet. It's not what she expected, she confides in him. Across the ocean, she had thought there would be buildings just as tall and dilapidated, crumbling apart and the city holds itself together by collecting buckets of sand and dim light would cradle the ceiling, ready to break apart at a moment's notice. They would share the same gloomy darkness. Instead, there are planes of desert, and cities named by months interspersed in between, and people who constantly thirst for alcohol.

The sun has never been so bright before.

It shines on their face and Toushirou looks up, his fingers linking with hers, as they wait for the motorcycle to be unloaded, and then they can go wherever they like.

They're simply dust particles, carried by the wind, looking for someone they cannot find. It's worse than that. They're tumbleweed, scraps of dirt clinging to the back of their neck, and no amount of water ever washes it out. Not even desperation.

They burn, they freckle, they survive. But only just.

(Karin burns. Toushirou buys her sun cream. Toushirou tans and Karin is jealous. She glowers for weeks, prodding the lighter shade of skin that appears on his face, brushing the dirt that sticks to his cheeks.)

The wind spits sand into the faces, accumulates in the back of their pocket, pushes it into their skin, and still they continue on this unknown path to wherever, drying up and becoming hollow shells chasing ghosts.

With freedom at their fingertips, the days pass easily. It blurs the time they spend from one city to another, until time feels like it isn't passing at all and they're lost in this stagnant sandy drift. Toushirou starts to feel dizzy when he realizes that nothing pins them down.

It's terrifying.

5.

No one ever tells them that an open sky can be so lonely.

They're teenagers.

They wouldn't have listened anyway.

6.

Karin becomes his anchor.

She's his constant, the one thing that Toushirou has after everything changes: the weather, the people, the landscapes, the dried up lakes, the broken paths they take after reaching another dead end.

When the sky darkened, she was there. When morning came, Karin remained.

She changes too. Neither of them stays the same after the desert begins to drain them of the handful of hope that slips through their fingers the longer they wander aimlessly about. What is left is the little that sticks to clammy hands scrabbling to touch hot skin and press her nose to the underside of his jaw, seeking the diminishing scent of petrichor. Karin changes and Toushirou watches; memorizing the details and cataloguing it for later as he presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. The lines on her face become harder, the palms of her hand become tougher, coarser as she grips the motorbike reins tighter, until there are calluses, blisters on her hands and feet, never symmetrical. Her hair grows longer. She becomes angrier.

He learns that skin cracks, and that it hurts to breathe in dingy motels in the desert, so insufferable and filthy and without air conditioning that functions properly in the middle of the day. Toushirou's temper is an ice cold thing that cools him to the bones, makes him forget about the sweltering heat that exist beyond their room, and when he looks at Karin, he can't stand it, something deep twisting in his stomach. Her touch scorches him, burns him up from within, and no matter how much he tries, his hand sliding in between her legs, he can't calm her down. Not when the stars still shine outside in the darkness and he still sees thoughts racing in her mind slowly vanishing like a fight she can neither win nor forget, until her hips jerk instinctively, until all she's whispering his name, whimpering as his fingers curl inside.

Karin's eyes flutter as she comes, heavy lidded and she meets his gaze beneath her lashes, mouth parted, her eyes still so dark and dilated. She reaches for him in a way that makes him feel utterly helpless.

Sometimes all he can do is scream until his throat is raw.

He still doesn't know what he's doing here, or what the hell she's thinking as she looks at him.

Alcohol helps.

7.

"What if," Toushirou slurs, and this is a game they like to play, when there's smoke and flashing neon lights and there's a nightclub found in one of the main desert cities and the excuse to drink as much as they can. Both of them are slightly more unhinged than they normally are, liquor staining his shirt, and he can breathe cigarette smoke on her, and it becomes so much easier to twist the knife and grin like apathetic teenagers picking scabs just to watch blood form. "What if we got it wrong?"

This is the thing that scares Karin the most.

"What if they stayed, you mean?" She says, her voice even and ironclad, quieter than the pulsing club music, yet it rings loudly in his ears, sends shivers down his spine. The wall behind him is sharp and hot, even the nights here in April City are still too stifling, and with his back pressed into the gritty clay, Karin traps him. "What if they stayed in the rain?"

Her hands rest on the curves of his shoulders, and she makes sure that he doesn't break eye contact, and he focuses on her, the centre blurred and angry and bitter like whisky he can smell on her breath, a pinprick of pain serving as a warning as she narrows the space between them, and he shifts slightly to accommodate her.

He nods.

"Then we find out when we reach December." She hisses, nails grazing his neck, drawing red marks, and her arms loop around him like a noose. Music pulses to the rhythm of her hips, steady in his hands.

Their mouths meet with a crash. Teeth clack together, and Karin bites Toushirou's tongue hard enough that he can taste copper. Up close, he can see the smudge in her makeup, the smear in her lipstick, the droplet caught in her eyelashes, and her hangman's knot tightens around his neck. Karin jumps on him without warning, her legs wrapping around his waist, flush against him and his arms flail about before he catches her, feeling awkward from the limited space they have in the alley.

 _What then?_ He nearly asks, fumbling as he supports her weight, stumbling backwards into the wall, tasting blood in her mouth that she's swiped from his bitten lips. _What happens then?_

He's not drunk enough to taunt her with questions she can't answer, but she knows them anyway. Karin takes them from him with her tongue and presses into the bruises that she left to make him ache and yearn, to groan at the sudden spike of pleasure and pain when he feels her hot breath against his ear.

Tonight they'll burn brighter than the stars. "So _shut up._ "

December. End of the months. End of the cities. End of the desert.

She doesn't know, and Karin hates herself for that, hates him for reminding her, and shoves her hand down his pants.

He's not the only one drowning out thoughts with sex.

8.

Some mornings Toushirou wakes up with sunlight streaming through the window, the curtains forgotten, Karin fast asleep and curled up to him, her legs entangled with his. Other times, he wakes up and rays of sunlight creep past the curtains, and Toushirou is alone.

She looks different like this, sprawled on the bed. The light hits her face in different angles, and she shifts restlessly, strands of black hair falling past her closed eyes.

Mornings like this, quiet, peaceful, dust settling on floorboards, Toushirou doesn't change a thing. He just tries to take the moment in, finding it both strange and sad that even in sleep, Karin can't afford herself to relax.

She holds herself against the world and him along with it.

9.

There's a smile on her face when they're out in the road, manic and ecstatic, and he catches sight of it in the reflection. It doesn't matter who drives, it's still there whether her head rests on his shoulders or he rests on her. Hope reignites on her face, the engines revving and brought to life in her hands.

"Maybe this time."

"Yeah."

It's what motivates them every time they stop in the latest town, asking questions.

Have they seen a trio? An orange head, red head and brunette? One's petite and slender; the other two are tall and lanky.

Each time someone shook their head, shrugged and said no, something breaks in her face, turns her fierce blue eyes into stone cold marble. Her jaw tightens imperceptibly.

"I see,"Karin says, and she's furious and cold, a burning white starlet seconds away from imploding and no one seems to notice, bored expressions looking elsewhere, and a twisted version is mirrored on her face. "Thanks anyway."

She's punched walls afterwards, until her knuckles are bloody, handed him her half-drank bottle and gazed at him with a bitter grin as he drinks the rest of it, stared at strangers in the face for too long, wanting them to change into people she longs to see, hating them for not changing at all, not even their silhouettes in the dimmed lights so she can pretend.

Her anger never fades, never completely.

It's there flexed in her bones, masqueraded by the sway to her body as she takes Toushirou's hand and tells him: _let's dance, forget about everything for just one night._

He watches her anger ripple over her muscles that hide under her clothes, and it builds with the smoke of neon clubs, the music thrumming though her veins, and she becomes a frenzied mess, out of control and impatient for answers.

The angrier she gets, the more she can't forget, can't lose herself to the beat, because she's burning up like wildfire, spreading across his skin and the only thing he can do is slam into her as she shakes and arches and comes undone and her hands leave his spine red and raw.

They don't talk about it when they leave the next day. They're nothing to be said.

They just pack up and leave, just like they were never there in the first place, living through their pockets, and absentmindedly tracing last night's scars lazily and eating a greasy breakfast, bacon and eggs and some terribly made coffee. The one with the least worst hangover gets to drive.

And she glows.

They hit the road, and the sun is still hot, but now they're surrounded by wind, and it rushes through their hair so fast that it recoils like whiplash. He holds onto her tightly, because there are some days when she can't wait to get out of the latest city, and she grips the accelerator too much, and the speed goes so fast that he can hardly think.

They're alone in the dune swept hills and there's nothing to say.

It's easier to forget and lose all sense of self when there's nothing but an endless region of desert and she's leaning on him.

There's an electric grin on her face, blinding and beneath bronze goggles, and out here, he could almost mistake it for hope inspired happiness.

10.

It's a sick sensation that spreads to his stomach when he realizes. Gravity is knocked off its axis, and Toushirou can't hold the world on his shoulders tonight and the feeling floods though his lungs, rising up his throat until he's sure he's about to throw up.

He splashes water on his face. It's not enough. It's never been enough, but he used to be able to handle it. Now he can't breathe, can't feel, there's a numb ache that exists under his skin that won't go away no matter how much he tries to ignore it. Right now it's hard feel something meaningful.

Toushirou laughs, hollow, empty, and the howl of the wind that explores the ravaging sands isn't what he _wants._ He wants to vomit and feel cheap and used by the dry heat that leaves him feeling caged. He wants to feel something that isn't useless and temporary and afraid of what happens when the journey ends and have a promise for something about forever. He's stuck in the middle of nowhere with the dregs of a desert wasteland for company with no finish line in sight, nothing to even hint that they've made the slightest bit of progress.

It takes two years, but it's finally happened.

Rain falls in the desert, but it's a poor pathetic reminder that Toushirou misses the rain from before.

The look in Karin's eyes, the lightning strike that flickered across her pale face, the coin flip that decided everything.

It all goes back to that one moment, when he broke her heart and his own in turn.

And—

He is so, so _fucked._

11.

He writes postcards to ghosts.

Anyone is a ghost if they're not Karin.

It's gotten to the point that everywhere they travel, for however long they decide to stay in the latest city, separate and reunite, in a club, in a café, in their hotel room, always with the same lack of result, anyone else Toushirou talks to becomes a figment of his imagination. People's faces turn to dust whenever he attempts to recall, blank slates with vacant expressions.

He tries, sometimes, to retain details – an individual quirk, the sound of their laughter, the shade of their pity, the shake of their head – but in the end he gives up. They all become ghosts, dead to the world, dead to him, lost in heat and forgotten in sand.

They slip into his dreams and reappear in reality, deciding to talk to him like they've known him all his life and he doesn't know how to reply besides a grumpy remark. It's too humid to care. He's too tired. Thoughts too muddled, he sways on his feet, the ground solid.

He blinks at them, dazed by the sun, the weight of Karin's body draped around his shoulder, practically asleep and he pays for a room, silently wondering if he's dreaming or not before dragging Karin with him, turning the key, pushing the door open, and collapsing on the bed.

He writes to anyone. A person he knew for less than five minutes and talked about daffodils. A person he met once while he sat on the sidewalk and then threw up on his shoes. To Baa-chan. He writes about slicing apples like heartbreak and scarred knees and how he misses her.

He writes to Momo.

He writes to Yuzu. He never uses her name, but it gets easier to think of her as time passes. He writes to her about Karin, about the grave they dug for her, the white roses placed on top, watching them wither and dissolve by acid rain. It's not as painful as it used to be, but still, when he dreams of her, his chest constricts. She shines, pretty as moonlight and vanishing before his fingertips and he's sorry, so sorry. It's all his fault.

He can't write to Karin or Ichigo.

He can't write to Renji or Rukia either.

He tries, sometimes. On the back of crumpled napkins, but he never gets much further than _Where are you?_ Angrily, he crosses it out. Starts again. _I miss you._ Once more. _Come back._ Every attempt he makes is useless.

Afterwards, Toushirou digs out a lighter and burns them. The pictures blacken and the paper curls, turning to ash as it's licked by flames. He lets go and the burnt remains are scattered on the floor, ruined, and his secrets are kept secret. Spilled ink decays and he crushes what's left of the postcard beneath his boot until it turns into dust.

12.

"You look like a runaway." Karin says, leaning on the motorbike, and idly, Toushirou wonders if this is the part when they act like strangers and look like lovers. She grins, teasing and cruel, as the sun basks above them, light and cool for once. It's early. "Want to run away with me?"

She's got sunglasses on her face. With a wolfish smile, she lifts them up, and lets them rest on the top of her head, flyaway threads of hair poking out at odd directions. It looks good on her.

Karin waggles her eyebrows, and for one ridiculous moment, he feels silly enough to grin back.

He rolls his eyes instead.

"I'm not." He says calmly, adding. "And I won't."

"Aw." She drawls, stretching the word out as much as she can, with her mouth, with her teeth, with her tongue, smirking in her morbid way, reaching out to grab a bottle of whiskey. "Isn't there anything I can do persuade you?"

"Perhaps."

"Really?" Intrigued, her teeth flash once more, white against red, and delight shines in her eyes. It's a challenge that she can rise to. One that she can succeed because temptation is too easy to give into, though he remembers he refused once. "What's it going to take?"

"Surprise me." Toushirou says carelessly, precariously, wanting her hands on him.

The grin she gives in return almost makes him regret it, if only he was a stranger, and he didn't know what was in store. This is only the start.

Instead, she hands him a bottle. The finest whisky she could find, apparently. If she was a little less starry eyed, he'd almost be inclined to believe her.

Something's upset her, or she wouldn't be drunk, pretending it was night time already, with the moon shining on their backs and shivering because of the cold. It'll be a long time before she'll tell him why, and that's if she'll tell him at all.

"C'mon, stranger." Karin laughs like he doesn't know her all, like all her problems can be flicked away like the butt of a cigarette, and gestures beside her, settling herself on the seat of her bike, "Sit with me. You look like you could use a drink."

That makes him smile.

"There. See." She says softly, unexpectedly deeper than she normally sounds. "You look prettier now. How long can you keep your face like that?"

Only for a second, it seems. He doesn't mean to, but it fades as quickly as it came, and Karin watches him with an odd expression on her face.

"Don't frown." She sighs, meaning _don't look at me like that,_ nudging his shoulder with hers as he sits next to her, accommodating him. He doesn't push her away. Her breath is warm against his neck. "I'm a runaway myself."

"So I've heard." He says, absentmindedly taking a swig, playing along. Nobody's watching them, and they stay quiet, pressed together on the seat, trading murmurs for stories of old. History is written in the dust of their clothes, the stain of liquor on their hands, but words tell a prettier tale. A prettier lie. "What are you running from?"

"Ah. Now. _That's_ a tricky question." Her free hand lies flat on her thigh, resting on frayed denim shorts, fingers slender and thin. She looks up, exhaling slowly, wondering. "Maybe I got it wrong. It's not like that." Karin shakes her head, trying to find the words she so desperately wants to convey. "I'm running towards something, not away from it."

"Semantics." He replies harshly, a lightning strike, sharp enough cut her skin. He catches them reverberate against him, the involuntary jerk that he feels bone deep, and he's angry all of a sudden, but he doesn't raise his voice, throat too tight to shout. The story is wrong, and he doesn't know if he likes the rewrite scribbled out in pages of spilt whisky. He doesn't know if he can pretend like this. He takes another gulp, tipping his head back. He wipes his mouth. "You're still running, aren't you?"

"Yeah." Karin nods. Toushirou thinks there should be rain above them, thunder crashing around them, and she looks at him like she's thirteen again, just as fierce and determined and angry. "I am."

Alcohol can be their rain. The hum of the engine can be their thunder. They can pretend for a moment longer, and close the distance between them, rewinding time to when an ache didn't exist in their limbs, clinging to each other, desperate for something warm.

He parts his lips and asks. "And you want me to run with you?"

"Yeah." She grins, and something breaks in him, not for the first time and not for the last, a distant echo like the wind roaming the desert, reflected on her face. Gravity tips itself in his favour, and he can feel himself fall, feel her catch him with the brush of her cheek, the upturn of her face, her nails looping around his belt, tugging him steady. He closes his eyes, giving in, and he hears her, voice quiet in his ear. "Why wouldn't I?"

13.

They don't talk about it.

Not the sex. Not the alcohol. Not the drunken conversations.

Karin climbs his body, shoving her hand down his pants, and mouths his neck. And he lets her. He lets her because he's greedy for this and he likes the saltwater taste of her skin. He likes the way she lazily traces the concaves of his ribs, likes how the heel of her hand presses against the sharp edge of his hip, around his dick, how she memorizes the way he shivers and watches him come.

He likes the way she whimpers as he crawls up her legs, taking his time with his tongue to attend to sensitive skin, cataloguing every reaction as he kisses her body, soft and gentle and revering, until her hips cant, and she kicks his shoulder blade with the soles of her feet, impatient for him to turn rough and bruising and unyielding, biting down on her dry lips to muffle her cries, shaking and sweating and babbling secrets that she twists into the sheets, spills into his mouth, not listening as he buries his own secrets into her skin.

It changes, even without being said.

She is furious and scorching and worn down by sand and rain alike. She is bitter and raw and dangerously sharp still, teeth like knives dragged down his waist, hands gripping too tight for him to think. He is tired and weary and slowly being submerged in a dry ocean clinging to something sure to slip out of his grip soon. He is numb and distant and blazing with something he can never say and will always destroy him as he rocks into Karin and waits for the world to disappear by her touch, blazing so hot that he can't stand it. They have turned into mirrors, into ghosts, twisting and breaking and scarcely breathing, burning too bright to last for much longer.

They're a ticking time bomb, Toushirou knows; it's only a matter of time.

So they drown in the meantime, let damnation crest over them, and lose themselves in each other.

The centre of her palm becomes home.

14.

He dreams. Of the constellations of stars he drew on her warm skin, shiny with spit, cooling as he breathes on the marks he left on her. Of the jacket he gave her once, too big and heavy for her to be of any use, so they sold it for a pocketful of mumbles. Of the day the left the boat and there was nothing but the desert and the blaring sun above them, cloudless and bright.

The wind is on their face, and together they lean on the bannisters, ocean water swirling beneath them, a soft sleepy lull. They talk quietly in hushed tones. The words are soft, and he can't remember what they said, but Toushirou tries to remember the rhythm of her voice, how she spoke, soothing tones that set him at ease. She touches his arm, full of hope, and he nods, a promise, he's certain.

Beyond the cliffs, there is the jagged outline of a city that exists. Later, they will know it as June, and even later they will begin to know the brittle ache known as disappointment and learn how grimly it stays with them, lurking in the shadow of sleepless nights. But they know nothing right now, captivated by a warm sun and a glittering sea.

She has never known a clearer sky, and with fascination Karin stares, unable to tear her eyes away at such a pure blue horizon. Toushirou pulls his jacket closer, trying not to shiver as he stands at the edge.

When he wakes, the sheets are bare and Karin is gone.

15.

December is not the end. December is the middle. December is bright and bustling and sparkling.

It's in the middle of the desert, no different to any other city they've encountered. Karin storms off, searching blindly, her eyes darting everywhere, and people part for her as she looks for everything, cracks, crevices, glimpsing at faces that turn away too fast. She doesn't say goodbye. By now Toushirou doesn't expect her to. He's left with the motorcycle, and with a grumble, he pushes forward.

December is where he meets Momo.

It's been seven years since she left them in the rain without a backwards glance. Here she stands, golden in sunlight.

She emerges from a crowd, walking straight towards him, and he thinks he must be seeing a ghost until she speaks.

"Hey," Momo says, a gentle smile crinkled in her eyes, the same as he remembers; the corners of her lips spread into a familiar grin that makes him feel like he belongs more than dried ink on burnt paper. "I thought it was you. Long time no see."

They've been looking for Ichigo for two years, but he meets Momo instantly. By chance.

Fate has a cruel sense of humour.

"Hey," Toushirou blinks back, and just like that, her face brightens, and she takes his hand, fingers interlacing, like she's never left at all, and she leads him to a café where the shade falls on her face.

He thinks about telling her about the letters he's written her. Thinks about the dune swept hills and the clouds of tarnished halos and ripped up feathers that floated above the house that they lived in with Baa-chan, and how they haven't escaped that place after all.

In the end, they'd both returned, coughing the rain from their lungs, inhaling sand instead and here they are.

She looks older, wiser, more worn by the sun than he does, and Toushirou wonders what happened to her, to Kira, since the last time they saw each other. Momo doesn't mention him at all and he doesn't ask.

"You came back." Momo smiles, her head resting in her hands, her hair short and pretty. Her voice is filled with surprise, but she makes it sound like a song, humming the words. "Out of the rain and into the sand."

If he's honest, he didn't think he'd come back. He didn't think she would either.

"I'm looking for someone." Toushirou begins, and tells her his story, the scribbles of a letter that he's dashed out so often. Momo listens, nodding as the gaps get filled in, just enough to understand, "Have you seen them?"

"No." Momo sighs. "Can't say I have."

16.

"We have the shittiest bike in the world." Karin glowers, kicking the engine one final time in vain hopes of making it work. There's a weak splutter, but after that, it refuses to give a reaction. It's a stubborn thing, just like its maker.

"You built it." Toushirou rolls his eyes, irritable when he can see the air shimmer. If Karin is going to be insufferable, then he can be equally insufferable while they wait for a miracle to pass them by.

It's not fun being abandoned in the desert with nothing but the clothes on their back and a dead motorbike.

"Fuck off." She snarls, unimpressed.

It's not like this happens every once in a while. Except it does. It happens often, because Karin likes to knock on the metal plate too much and so parts fall out. Or because there's a rattle in the gears, and this makes Toushirou extra nervous whenever he's the one driving, and Karin is dozing on his back, because the damn motorbike creaks under their weight.

It's a shit bike, but Karin is too attached to it to let it die. It's the one thing that's hers, and she'll be damned if it goes to waste.

"At least we have water this time." He drawls, and it's a vicious sort of pleasure that spikes within him when Karin flushes, and he knows that it's not just the blistering heat of the sun that causes it.

"Shut up." She mutters, and it's a poor rebuttal that he's almost sad that he expected better. She spits out a second later. "I'm not the one who got dehydrated."

That wipes the smirk off his face.

"That's not funny."

"I'm not laughing." She snaps, terse, then inspects the damage. Her back turns, and she ignores him, too busy concentrating on figuring out the problem.

His first memory of her is her back towards him, working on scraps of junk, and he and Momo were completely soaked as they entered the junk shop, the first shop they saw, dead on their feet and unused to rain. They smelt of smoke and sand and gasoline, about to collapse, and she turns around, this defiant girl who's younger than both of them. She's the last thing he sees before the world fades to black.

"Can you repair it?" He asks eventually, watching her, waiting.

Karin takes her time in answering, thinking hard. She stands up, considering, and then meets his eyes, relentlessly determined. "Yeah. It's possible. But I don't have materials with me."

He can scavenge for them later.

"Fine." He shrugs, and cuts to the chase, squinting at the distance. "How much?"

"Fuck if I know." Karin murmurs, absentmindedly, before placing her hands on the handlebars. Then she grins, a twisted little shit eating grin that he likes too much entirely. "If I win, you buy the parts."

Turns out she loses. They walk all the way to the nearest shelter. When they reach August, there's a storm on her face. Toushirou can trace lightning over her cheekbones, and Karin bites his tongue when he tries.

17.

Toushirou picks dandelions and visits the place where he used to live with Momo and Baa-chan.

It doesn't exist anymore, burnt to the ground and covered by filthy brown gold hills that look like shimmering treasure from a distance. Close up, it's a tawdry mess, arid and dry to be anything but a deteriorating husk of a ruin. But some things aren't forgotten, sticking to the cracks of his memory, the lines of his dreams, and Toushirou wrote once on the flat of a postcard that he's certain some part of him is still here, collecting sand in his pockets, even though now there's nothing but dirt and ash.

Somewhere nearby, there's an unmarked grave of someone only they remember.

He remembers that he emptied the gasoline and Momo lit the matches.

It's what Baa-chan wanted.

Toushirou doesn't remember much now. The rain has washed out the sand, and with it, his memories of her. But there's the broken down sign. There's the far off outline of January. There's the ghost of children playing. This he recognises. A secret that is his alone.

There's no wind here.

But he blows and watches the spores scatter apart.

18.

"Wake up."

Karin shakes him.

"What?" Toushirou mumbles, his voice rough from sleep. His face is buried in his pillow. He's still drowsy, dreaming of half-trinket smiles and combustible laughter. Impossible things. "Karin. What is it?"

"We have to go." She says, impatient. Her nails dig into his spine and he's not really sure what the effect is meant to be because he doesn't jolt awake, instead he relaxes into the mattress. He hears her huff. Maybe laugh. He shifts slightly, opening one eye to look at her, close enough for him to reach out and pull her into his embrace.

Sunlight creeps through the curtains, and Karin ties her black hair into a ponytail. Then she pokes him. Hard.

"I'll drive. You can fall asleep there."

"Promises, promises." Toushirou mutters, his mouth muffled by the pillow. He's slow to wake and would rather bask in its glow for a few more moments. Travelling endlessly has a toll. All that wandering on a makeshift road, dozing on Karin's shoulder, and always aware of the humming engine, it's not as fun as she makes it out to be. He only wishes that it would be more comfortable. He takes a better look at her, making an attempt to pay attention. "What's the rush?"

Karin can hardly get the words out, stumbling with something lost like happiness in her mouth.

"I found him."

(She hasn't.)

19.

"What if I never find him?" Karin asks, while they wait, sitting in what little shade the bike gives them, the stupid thing. "What if I keep searching forever?"

"Then we search forever." Toushirou says, blunt. "Isn't that what we're doing?"

She ignores him, too tired to move.

Either she wins the bet, or they die. At least until they get tired of waiting and being bored and start walking in a direction.

"Why do you stay?" Karin asks instead, quiet. She doesn't look at him but her shadow.

He stills.

"You're going to make me say it?" He grunts, and kicks sand. "Don't be an idiot."

She tosses her head back and laughs.

"Fine."

"Why don't you leave?" Toushirou asks, while he still can. He means, _why don't you leave me behind._ It would be easy, he thinks, because she misses Ichigo, Renji, and Rukia. She's known them for longer. It makes sense. She's chasing them, and he's tagging after her.

"Don't be an idiot." Karin parrots his words and elbows him, too sharp and bony, and it hurts.

Fact is, she wouldn't leave without him. Not then, not now.

There's warmth expanding in his chest, growing so much that Toushirou must be sun touched. He feels like smiling.

He looks up.

"You win." Toushirou says, and stands up, trying to attract the bus' attention. Karin grins, waving her arms as much as she can, calling out to them and it stops. He hates it when he has to walk to a silhouette, but that doesn't stop him from pushing the bike towards it. "How much, then?"

Karin smirks, helping him. "Hell if I know."

It's a start.

20.

The back of the bus is empty, and they amble onto the seats. Karin rests her head on his shoulders, and Toushirou is content just to stare out the window as the bus starts up again. Nobody bothers them.

"Why do you think he'd be here?" He asks softly, so no one overhears them. His hand curls around her waist, fingers touching hot skin.

"I thought he was like me. Sick of the rain." Karin admits, sliding her shoulder under his. "Guess not."

And he wonders if this is it. If they're always going to be like footprints in sand, two strangers turning into ghosts, forgotten and buried by dusk landscapes that grow rougher and fiercer until there isn't any gentleness left and the desert wind erases every mark they left behind.

"Now look at us. Sick of the sand, too." Toushirou yawns, sleepy once more now there's nothing to do but wait for the next city at the next stop.

They could disappear like this, and nobody would ever know.

"Sun's not so bad."

"You hate it." Toushirou murmurs, closing his eyes. Karin likes the clear nights, the stars that shine, the coldness it brings. She doesn't care much for the heat and the sand that sticks to the bottom of her boots.

"Maybe next time." Karin sighs, and she sounds heartbroken and tired and like she doesn't know what else to believe in because she's got no one left except him.

He needs her, so he knows he's not a ghost, so she can keep on burning bright, the way she needs him. She knows that he believes in her and she will never leave him. He leaves his marks on the topography of her body and she on his, tracing the constellations of their scars, forgotten footsteps, so when it's over, while it lasts, they have this, only they would know that they haven't faded away like dried rain soaked footprints in the ocean of sand.

Toushirou hopes.

"Yeah."


End file.
